Response Day

I realize that I talk about writing a lot on this blog. But one thing that I don't do, as frequently as I talk about it, is do it. I rarely write for myself. And I'm starting to think that it was because I was adopting a 'good enough' mentality. Writing was becoming lackluster. In theory, I knew that I had a lot to learn as far as the craft and art of writing goes, but I just didn't feel it. I'm not trying to say I felt superior. But I felt like I had learned a lot more ahead of time; this was proved in my Advanced Writing class when I wrote a braided essay for my final assignment (because I LOVE braided essays) and no one in my class had ever written (or heard of) braided essays. It wasn't just the braided essay either. People in that class were still in the 'I think your paper was good, end of story' critiquing stage. No one had the guts to tell me where I went wrong, and even my professor decided my papers were 'just fine,' most of the time.

Until now. Now, I still maintain that my creative nonfiction teacher is not as great as she could be. Quite a lot of my classmates feel the same way, and have even started skipping class to do the homework and reading--not because they didn't have the time to do it the rest of the week or weekend, but because they feel it's a better use of time than sitting through class.

But today we had our first response day (we do a LOT less writing in this class than my Advanced Writing class). We only had four papers to read and respond to because she broke us down into smaller groups. My paper was discussed last. This time, I wasn't getting the same old 'this is really great, end of story' line. I was given a good critique of my paper (they actually told me WHY it was confusing, and WHERE, not just that it was confusing, end of story), not just by my classmates, but by my teacher (or at least more of a critique than I've had since high school) as well. She gave me a B+. Hell, I wish it was a B- or C+ (I admit, anything lower probably would have not only bruised my ego but destroyed me and would leave me in need of time to recuperate). I didn't like my paper. I whipped it out of my rear end. While I didn't think it was terrible, I knew, like usual, it needed improvement. My teacher literally typed a full page, critiquing my paper. She found things in there that I didn't even think of. She pretty much had my personality to the T by the time she was through with me. And best of all, by the time I was done staring in shock at that grade, I was filled with a sense of desire to write. I have not felt this feeling, this blaze of fire. This need to pick up a pencil, say screw my homework, and just write. About anything and everything. Needless to say, today I discovered what is just so great about my teacher. While I don't find myself wanting to adopt most anything about her process of critiquing (or, indeed, teaching), she awed me with how much she got out of my paper-- stuff that I didn't think was that obvious, or even present. I've got a lot more respect for her than I had yesterday. Or two hours ago.

Funny how a B+ affects a girl these days.

Here is the paper I turned in. I might be editing it later, expanding a lot, to turn into a final paper.

Scars Essay1

Music Amazing

I'm a fan of wandering on the site stumble.com. I come across travel sites, photography sites, music sites. . . anything that I told it was something I was interested in. Tonight, while relaxing after homework, stumble brought me here: to Andrew Bird. He plays every instrument in the song, he's cute, and he whistles like no tomorrow.

And then stumble brought me here: to a website that scans your handwriting so you can write letters with a personal touch. I now have my own font called KristenCraze. Don't judge, it's the best I could come up with on the spot. This is a very cool concept, though a bit of a faulty one. While the individual letters are indeed my own, it is not my writing. I connect almost all my letters, like a cursive of my own. Still, the idea is interesting.

And finally, there is Jamie Lidell singing 'The City.' I love it because he makes his own music. . . with his mouth. Reminds me of a kid in high school. Anyway, nice use of his mouth. And his voice doesn't hurt either.

It Started

With a text.
"Hey, want to go to the martin luther king jr freedom march with me from paul and babe to the baux arts room? There will be chili!"
How could I resist chili? Even IF the sun was going down, the wind picking up, and the temperature dropped below freezing again. And even IF I had a headache. And two tests to study for. And a paper to write. And a presentation to research. And notes to take. I could go on, but I digress.
My friend Sara and I suited up (she was still expecting the weather from the day before, not the sleet and freezing rain we encountered, and so she only had a light jacket on) and walked against freezing rain to Paul and Babe. The group we met there was small, but I saw we were going to have a police escort. This obviously meant this was going to be more than just a walk down the sidewalk, like I had figured. There was someone from a TV station interviewing the man heading up the walk. And then they handed out flags. Someone pushed one into my hands--it was the Chinese flag. There were others that I didn't recognize, the flag for the British colonies, and one for Japan. I still didn't know what to expect by this point, except that I was probably going to be an icicle by the time I returned to campus. I was right. But I can't think of a more memorable experience since arriving at BSU. Here's what happened:

We began walking, the police giving us one lane of traffic and slowed down all the others (it was about 5:30 at this point, meaning people trying to get home must have been pretty upset). Sara and I had fun staying out of the way of flags whipping in the wind and pointing out houses we liked or ones we could imagine fixing up. Some cars honked in support while a few newspeople ran around us or in front of us with heavy TV equipment or cameras trying to get something useful. There were some kids behind us that were using us as a shield from the wind--which was pretty darn smart. They were both holding flags of their own. When we finally reached the Baux Arts room back on campus, wind battered and frozen to the bone, we discovered chili. So we ate chili and waited for people to speak (which I wasn't expecting, I was just expecting chili).

Here's the really memorable experience part. The keynote speaker was a woman (I think her name was Dr.Anne B. Henry) who met Dr. King Jr. She began by saying how much she loves shopping. So when Dr Anne went to stay with her cousin and her cousin's husband, the cousin told the husband to take the Dr shopping. He had a plan to drop her off at the mall and pick her up later. But first, he had to drop something off at a friend's house. She thought this was a good deal, so they went to the friend's house. When they got there, he asked Dr. Anne to go up to the door and knock while he got something out of the trunk. So, she went up and knocked. When the door opened, she began to stammer apologies for intruding, because the man who opened the door was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. She also told us that she met this man in 1968.
She said it was the first time she went to a new city and didn't go shopping.
He invited her in and they talked about his hopes for the future. He told her that someday she would be able to go to college to earn her masters and someday her doctorate. She refused to believe him.

She went on to talk about not just tolerating, but accepting, people. About how Mississippi wants to celebrate a KKK leader on their license plate and that this is just one of many signs (another is that two men in Brainerd beat a man apparently only because he was black just ten days ago) that we are not yet the "United" States of America. She told us that if someone told her in the 60's that she would live to see a man of color become our president she would have called them crazy.

Now, to quote my mass media teacher, I do not drink the Obama Kool-Aid. But I saw what she meant. It's very cool that as a country we were able to vote in a man of color to presidency. I believe that this act is a landmark in time that we will be proud of as a nation.

What I thought about the most during her speech was this: northern Minnesota (I'm being specific to northern Minnesota because I haven't lived anywhere else and actually been able to remember living there) does not know a lot about living with people of different nationalities. Or so it seems. I know that in elementary school there was one black kid in our class until fifth grade. Then there were two. By the time we hit high school, it was culture shock. I think people started moving to TRF from all over (I know some kids were from South America and South Africa) for the jobs at Digi Key (why else move to Thief River Falls?). My point is that before this time, we never really got to experience anything other than that single dominating race. What does that do to a person's mentality? Does it affect how a person thinks racially? Are they less able to accept people of other races because they weren't raised to accept, not just tolerate, them in daily life? I hope an answer to that last question has more to do with the general goodness of a person's mentality toward the world. I know that there were kids in school who were downright shockingly racist, but from what I observed from afar, I think even though the experience with people from different cultures had been relatively minimal, the general population didn't just tolerate their classmates. They accepted them, became their friends. Does that say something about people in general, people from small towns, or just about our town?
I think I would consider living in a big city (maybe New York. Go big or go home, right?) just to see what the difference is. In all aspects of life. Of course, I would return to a small town somewhere (somewhere soon, I would bet), but I think there's something to be said about big city living.

I digress. I just thought our keynote speaker was a really sassy, New Orleans type lady; a person I never got the chance to meet even when I WAS in New Orleans (I was surrounded by 4000 other church kids, the city was overrun with tourists). Her experience was worth thinking about and listening to. If you want to read about it here it is. So, thanks for the text, Sara.

The Wind is Beginning to Change. . .

I love this time of year:

 

When the winter gloves are next to the summer sandals. =D It really gives a person hope. 

Creative Writing Class

I think I've mentioned before how interesting it is when I write something, usually a memory, for a paper in class and then have my best friend look it over. She is almost always included in these memories (our trip to Europe, our trip to New Orleans, our trips to the cities. . . ect.), so when I ask her for comments, it's usually along the lines of, "No, that's wrong. This is what happened."

Usually, she's right. My memory is terrible. Though, for the record, I still believe the Mercedes CLK 65 Black we saw in New Orleans was gray. No one would destroy that beautiful power-fiend by painting it baby blue.

The latest example is of a paper I just finished writing tonight. I shot her an email and asked her to edit before I hit print. It was about our trip to Valley Fair this last summer with my dad. My assignment for my Writing Creative Nonfiction class was to write out an 'explodable' memory. Draw it out, take it step by step. This was hard for me, because most memories I treasure aren't terribly exciting. Most involve staring out over an Italian landscape or the first time my niece found out how to make me laugh. But then I remembered the rip cord.

I should explain. I am afraid of heights. I mean, heights above those which I can't jump down from safely. This is probably why I never climbed any of the awesome evergreen trees in our yard (probably too, because I hated having sappy fingers). But I've always wanted to skydive. Call it taking on my fears, but I've always wanted to experience the feeling of falling. But, you know, not the whole dying part. Parachute. Problem solved. Anyway, we were at Valley Fair, and I think we were pretty tired by this point (we got there early and spent the day on water rides and walking around). I saw the rip cord. There was a lot of joking about going on about doing it, until my dad told us he would pay, but only if my friend went with me. The long and short of it is what I drafted into this paper.

Form and Technique 2

My friend text me and said I was wrong. I had pulled the release cable. I refused to believe this. I have no memory of pulling the cord, just hanging on to her for dear life. I was scared witless. I wanted to throw up. I also remember the sun almost piercing my skin. Then she reminded me that my dad had caught it all on camera. I went to look at the video, and sure enough, I pulled the cord, and it was cloudy (borderline raining). Again, I do have a terrible memory. But what gets me is that I can still feel the sun on my skin. I wrote the paper to what is true to my memory. Maybe it was tainted by the absolute fear gripping my heart and lungs. But I think this is what I love most about creative nonfiction. It doesn't matter that my friend was too scared to pull the cord so I was forced to volunteer, or that it was about to rain. I wrote this how I remember, and the best part is arguing the details with my friends and family. Because we all have different views of what really happened.

Calvin and Hobbs

I haven't always loved Calvin and Hobbes. To be quite frank, they confused me when I was little. I thought that for a cartoon, there was too much dialogue I didn't understand. So I went back to my Nancy Drew. Actually, for the most part, I hated comics. They were too short, didn't have enough of an exciting plot, or I just didn't understand them. It took a while to grow into them, and in fact, I can say I've never appreciated them more than now.

My dad brought me four Calvin and Hobbes books on his way down to Rochester this last week, and I've had time to devour one and a half of them. I almost died laughing when I realized, here are comments on topics I am covering (or have recently covered) in Mass Media in Society, American Lit, or other college classes. There is one I just read where Hobbes is looking at a book about how technology takes over humanity-- Calvin agrees this is terrible, but interrupts himself with, "Ohmygosh, is that the time? I'm missing my TV show!" This couldn't have been more on mark with what I'm reading in a book by Neil Postman for my Mass Media class right now.

And then, there is just the pure fun of Calvin's life. I keep thinking of how amusing it would have been to be Ms. Wormwood. What would I do if I saw Calvin pretending to be Spaceman Spiff, flying his ship? Arms outstretched, the look of being windblown? I've been roaring with laughter for the past few nights, that's for sure. I have to say, my favorite strip is when he combs his hair and puts his dad's glasses on and tells his father to go do something he hates because it will build character. I couldn't stop laughing for about five minutes. I'm glad I don't have a roommate. I'm reading my absolute favorite collection now, "Something Under the Bed is Drooling."

Anyway, I could go on forever about Calvin and Hobbes. In fact, tonight I met one of my friend's BFF from back home; she has a tattoo of Calvin and Hobbes hugging on her foot. We bonded over favorite strips and how terrible it is when we meet people who DON'T know who they are. My point to this post is something I came across when looking at Calvin and Hobbes tattoos, to see what people have done with them. Some went as far as getting entire strips on their arms, legs, or backs.

 This one of Spaceman Spiff is my favorite.

 Though, if I got one myself, it would be of them in their wagon. Or sitting next to the fire.

 This one is the one my friend has, but she's got it on her inner foot.

Another of my favorite strips



But then, I saw this:

 

I can't begin to describe the pit of sadness that weighed me down after looking at this. It was a result of this article. It talks how it won't be mandatory for students participating in athletics to take drug tests before starting the season. It merges onto the topic of students taking Ritalin or Adderal to do better in school. It wasn't even the article that upset me. It was the bottom two panels of the above comic. It's almost like they killed Hobbes. The idea of Calvin growing up, Hobbes forgotten, is down right depressing. This is the most imaginative kid EVER. Ughhhh. My point, I suppose, is that this was depressing. And I thought I would share it with the world. Take it for what you will-- it's late, and I'm going to read me some hilarious Calvin-Hobbesian antics before bed.

Here are a few pictures I found that made me feel better: 

 This is with Suzie, who my friend said she could just see being Calvin's future girlfriend.